#Sentient Weaponry

[gear-project]

I remember years ago that you speculated that the OutRage were all sentient elemental beings like youkai that Sol sealed into instroments(kinda like how Dante from Devil May Cry turns the souls of the Devils that he defeats into weapons). Do you still think that the theory is still credible with all of the new information since STRIVE came out?

Well, if you've been following my OutRage and GG Weapons tags, then you know there's a lot of pre-existing information and history on the Jinki as well as Youkai and War Relics.

For context though, I've written down the basic definition of an Instroment as a Magic-infused object.

In general, the Conclave (and even the P.W.A.B.) have been fearful of the OutRage ever since they recovered pieces of them, which is why few have ever seen the Jinki in action, since according to Sol many weapons and War Relics were kept in Harden Fortress, and even Asuka R. Kreutz is cautious when mentioning the OutRage or even the Saint Oratorio Lab Cannon.

But in case it wasn't obvious, two of the Jinki in particular have emitted some unique supernatural powers already.

Thundersealed Sword: ---Has been known to regenerate itself as well as emit powerful Time-seal Powers. ---When Ky performs "Rising Force" (his Instant Kill…) a Sylph-like being appears behind him (GGX sprite version)… it is very similar to Elves or Elvish beings with long ears in appearance and long hair. In the latter Xrd version, an Angelic being is superimposed on the background of Ky's attack.

Zessen Void Fans: ---Was used as a Barrier over the Japanese Dimensional Colony and early lore suggested it could only be activated by Japanese Bloodlines for their own protection. Aside from this, the fans have multiple forms and sizes when they shapeshift similar to Gears. ---When Anji performs ZETSU (his Instant Kill), a Wind Dragon appears underneath him which he rides atop until it hits his opponent.

Justice' Body Armor: ---While not entirely 'sentient' it transforms in accordance with her will, almost like a symbiote (in fact Eddie's Shadow Organism Body and Angra's Hair Curse are derived from lost Gear technology that can shapeshift in a similar manner). This property would later be inherited by most Valentines. ---While Dizzy does not bear Armor herself… the OutRage logo has appeared in her "Magic Crest" alongside her Gear Seal crest in early sprites of her design from GGX to GGXX. Dizzy also has uniquely shapeshifting abilities similar to this armor. Dizzy's clothing does transform as well to suit her needs.

Tyr: ---The young mysterious boy who fought alongside Kliff Undersn during the Crusades, while he doesn't have a clear-cut backstory… everything about him suggests he was transformed in to a Gear since fusing with the Dragon Fenrir. ---Aside from his dangerous powers which can transmute matter in to virtually anything, Tyr has been known to RESONATE with the existing OutRage Jinki… which suggests they were semi-aware or cautious of him. ---In his sealed state, he took the appearance of a Dragon Statue-like Deity which the Japanese people revered and respected… that is until Geena broke into the colony and woke him up with her Fire Magic… she lost her hand in the skirmish as a result!

Non-Jinki Weaponry of Note: ---While it is not a "Jinki" like the others, Nagoriyuki's sword appears to be possessed by a Gashadokuro "Hungry Skeleton Ghost" when he performs his Overdrive WASUREYUKI. Also the sword is known to "grow" in length in an almost symbiotic-like way to help Nagoriyuki feed when his Blood Lust increases. ---Ramlethal Valentine's RATTLE blades lift their seals to transform in to long Red Katanas during her ANIMO ESTINGI "Soul Extinguisher" Instant Kill, but aside from the swords… Ramlethal's CLOTHING is something akin to an ORGANIC MOUTH… in previous Xrd appearances, Ramlethal's Mouth-Coat could transform in to a chain-saw like blade during her throw attacks, but it can also shapeshift her entire body in to an energy BOMB. While the Coat had a more organic appearance in Xrd, it was somewhat altered in Strive, and has something similar to cybernetic teeth now, though the technology behind the coat is a bit of a mystery… suffice to say most of Ramlethal's and Elphelt's clothing was "formed" in the Backyard. I wouldn't be surprised if Elphelt's outfits were semi-organic as well. ---Flament Nagel is described as a "Magical Foci Beast" in some descriptions… though it's closer to a Youkai or "Treasured Heirloom" Tsukumogami (Similar to Roger, Bridget's Teddie Bear) that somehow became sentient… obviously he's been around since the Crusades and even fought Slayer… but he was stuck in an Armory for a number of years at Frasco until A.B.A. found him and started calling him Paracelsus after her creator. He prefers to be treated as the Blood Axe that he is… though how he came to be is still a mystery. ---Izuna's TRUE FORM is that of a Kanzashi… while it is NOT a weapon, it is a hair ornament, though even if that's the case, Izuna has his own "ornamental sword" which he can brandish in the name of justice if needed.

This all being said, it is no small feat to say that Sol Badguy's OutRage Mark 2 was responsible for killing a Demigod like I-No. It utilized the Firesealed Sword as its core, but in addition it utilized the Flashing Fang jinki (Senga) which Sol used to create the Junkyard Dog Mk. 3 during Xrd's events. The Firesealed Sword is already famous enough for being the weapon Sol used to defeat Justice (among many other Gears he has killed with it)... but well... a weapon that can surpass Infinity and Crush Zero speaks for itself...

Well, there's still plenty of mystery behind the Jinki...

The Dominator (Ekitoku "Increasing Fervor") suggests it is a weapon that gets stronger with every use... like the ultimate Amplifier (and Jinki are ALREADY known to amplify Magic as part of their basic nature).

The Baikal... code-named after the Deepest Freshwater Lake in the world... should also speak for itself... but it is called "Kojouhaku" (White on the Lake) in Japanese... suggesting it has control over Mist (not just Water)... we've known Johnny's Engetsu sword can generate powerful draws in the form of "Mist Finer", but his master Unchou apparently wields a spear that can strike even FASTER that this... while I cannot say for certain if the Baikal is related to Master Unchou Hirufumi, only time will tell if we learn more history about Johnny's past.

[icryyoumercy]

i kind of want to write a second part to a fic i wrote, but the story needs a lawyer, and also some understanding of. manumission, and the associated legal problems (in the context of murderbot diary secunits); and probably also labor laws, mostly about appropriate pay and work safety procedures; and theft vs. smuggling vs. liberation when it comes to living beings

which i could theoretically google, but i have absolutely no idea where to start apart from the us civil war, and possibly ancient rome, both of which are kind of difficult to find info on that i can understand as a layperson while also being (more or less) neutral and without judgement, and also neither seem very applicable for a science fiction story

so. uh. if there's anyone following me who knows about these things and is willing to explain things to me in small and simple words, pretty please?

[xelitzenith]

Okay since the drifter has lotus hand give the tenno hunhow's arm.

[mangk0]

i think one of my favorite predictions from my watchthrough of gowr was taking one look at ingrid and shouting "IS THAT FUCKING SUMARBRANDER"

yes i was/am a magnus chase fan and what of it

[mossiestpiglet]

Sentient swords is rapidly becoming one of my favorite tropes, especially when they have deep emotional connections to their handlers

[valtsv]

fuck it. silt verses oc masterpost. eat up.

- anastasis crane - god-hunter, atheist, and wandering vagabond. both predator and prey in a single being. does dirty work so others don't have to. it's ya boy annie.

- house crane - old money cult family who rebranded after their god was outlawed following the imago war. now they construct and review binding contracts for both peninsulan and linger straits bodies of commerce and government - with an emphasis on the "binding" aspect. rumour has it they've been granted special dispensation to keep practicing their illegal and rather nasty banned rituals, so long as they're discrete and keep providing their services to the people who matter. they don't mix much with anyone outside of the family except on business, and are rarely seen in public. it's generally agreed that the reports of many of them being not altogether human are just scary stories for children, but a few people have claimed (under the influence of a few rounds at the local bar) to have known someone who worked for someone high up in business or politics who can confirm the truth of such claims with their own eyes. of course, these people have generally since disappeared, which makes corroboration difficult. their characteristic spindly, spidery features are probably just a product of ancestral aristocratic inbreeding. probably.

- fen kahron - ferryman presiding over a treacherous stretch of marshland. you will not be able to cross without her help, but that hasn't stopped people from trying, either out of principle or to avoid the toll, which takes the form of something of personal value to the individual. fortunately, her god's mouth is always open. she's not terribly fond of the parish of tide and flesh - her relationship to her god is personal, and they keep trying to convert her. which is silly, really, because she's been dead for a very long time.

- the carrion-herald / the bleach-bone king - an angel/saint(?) of death and decay that feeds on the dead and dying in extreme, remote environments where rescue or retrieval is unlikely. his coming is heralded by his halo of carrion birds seen circling overhead. those who worship him see this as a sign of luck - either you've been chosen to meet him, or to bear witness to his procession.

- harmony joy - a love-saint who leads a dancing plague. once human, she called a god into her in her aching loneliness after being ostracised utterly from her community and forced to bear witness to their collective happiness together, which blessed her to dance forever so beautifully that she would never want for a partner again. she might seem sentient at first, but spend long enough in her company (not recommended) and you'll soon realise that her apparent personality is simply a fragmented collection of lovingly preserved scraps of her past lovers, who, once in her thrall, will dance until their bodies give out, even if their minds should break and skin and sinew should snap and be torn away in strips. sightings of her procession have dwindled in recent years, likely due to modern technological advancements allowing for more effective deterrence and warning systems, as well as the improvements in long-range weaponry, but she still features prominently in urban legends and cautionary tales about staying out late alone.

[pedros-mustache]

nighthawks (20)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: 6k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, language, x fem!reader

a/n: wow - um, hey, guys. so after my year long hiatus, i am here. hello. i truthfully to not expect anyone to flock to this story again after how inconsistent i have been. but din & scout came to me fully formed almost four years ago, and i must finish the story within. you are, of course, welcome to come along for the ride. 💛

please forgive me if this is utter shite. it has been a long time since i wrote much of anything, so i am, as the kids say, pretty mid at this.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH 

The wind whips and rages, stinging your cheeks with nettles of ice. 

From the bowels of the Sunder, Din unearthed a paltry speeder, hardly big enough to hold you and him, let alone any apprehension. That barbed, scared part of you stayed behind, and there it will remain, buried beneath mounting layers of snow and the shadow of the Sunder . You are resolute now, sure in your finely-tuned senses. Your heart thumps against your ribcage: Ren-dell Cr-ik, Ren-dell Cr-ik.

By the stars, you’ll get the bastard if it is the last thing you do. 

Hoth is exactly as your father said it would be: hostile, fierce. Downright predatory. A cold unlike anything you have ever known crawls beneath your outermost layers and settles on your skin like permafrost. The wind screams as it whistles through the frozen ends of your hair. If a decade-old rage did not simmer in your gut, you might feel the urge to shiver. Even so, you have a sneaking suspicion the planet has the means and the motive to end your life before Crik even gets the chance. If the cold doesn’t finish you first, then the Wampa (Maker forbid you should stumble across one) surely will.

You twist your fingers beneath the frosted metal of Din’s pauldrons. Figures the Sunder would come equipped with a single-rider speeder. Figures you’d end up behind Din on that bike, your face against his shoulder blade, your ass out for Hoth’s taking. Your leg muscles scream, pressed tight against Din’s hips.

The speeder races across the snow-covered landscape, current destination unfolding. 

Crik’s fob blinks like a heartbeat from the sloped dash of the speeder. He’s here—on Hoth—breathing the same atmosphere, feeling the sting of the same snow. Though the fob confirms it, you can feel his slimy presence to the marrow of your bones. He is a phantom, caged in the corner of your mind, screaming in the shadows, shaking the iron bars which have kept him confined for so long. An hour more, a day longer, and the rusted door will swing open. You will stand face to face. 

And he will be the first to fall. 

Din tilts the speeder to the right, and you shift with the motion, leaning into the slant. With so few sentient lifeforms on Hoth, the options for where to begin your hunt are limited. Outpost Beta, Gamma Base—you could start at either but with rumblings of growing tension between the Rebels and the Empire, neither you or Din are sure a Rebel outpost is the best place to start. Hoth is too expansive to meander in the hopes of stumbling upon Crik, and without the aid of a heat signature, Din’s tracking tech does you a fat lot of good. You are left with the path of least resistance for now, even if it seems to you the least effective: find the closest cantina and ask around without raising suspicion. No self-respecting planet, sparsely populated or not, can get by without a cantina, and Din seems confident Hoth is sure to have at least one. You’ll start there and work your way out, carving through the snow and the ice and the bitter cold with your sheer determination and his iron fist. 

“Cantina. Three klicks ahead.” Din’s voice filters through your ear, tinny and warped by ill-used ear pieces. “Karga found it.” 

As the speeder darts across the frigid terrain, you rest your forehead against the back of Din’s helmet. You cannot afford to let your mind wander on this mission; there is precious time, precious energy, precious resources, and ruminating on previous conversations is wasteful. You push the thoughts of Mandalore, of your father’s proclamation of marriage, away. You must be single-minded, a sharp edged knife against the world and all in it.

The speeder angles upward over a rise, and you pull your head away from the chilled metal of the helmet. There, in the distance, a dark brown speck amidst the sparkling ice and snow: the cantina. It develops, blooming larger, unfurling, as the speeder draws closer. 

Your temporary destination is a brown craggy rock set in the base of a larger hill, carved into an oblong mass. Discrete, easy to miss on a ship overhead as a simple geological formation, but the slate gray door etched in the center of the rock speaks otherwise. Laid in white stone above the door, small red lights blink in alternating patterns. If you thought it meant anything, you may pause and determine if the lights communicate anything other than a siren’s call.

Din brings the speeder to a halt alongside a four legged creature tied to a post beside the door. Snow tangles and matts between the animal’s blue-hued fur, and a rusted chain at the beast’s ankle jangles as a bitter wind gusts over the hilltop. The creature swings its head as you dismount, braying woefully, revealing a mouth of sawn-off teeth. Pockets of puss and blood line the animal’s jaw where its teeth should stand upright. You look away and check the blaster at your hip. 

Din lifts Crik’s fob from the speeder, hides it within his pocket, then nods at you. “Let’s go.”

The door to the cantina slides open on a hiss, internal mechanisms excreting plumes of white-gray chemicals. You’re glad for the scarf wrapped around your nose and mouth. Chemicals aside, the cantina smells like shit. A foul odor hangs in the air, rotted flesh and spoiled meat. You cringe beneath your mask and steel yourself against the pervasive fumes as you follow Din through the scattered tables and chairs. 

The cantina’s sole room is quiet save for the sound of the wind outside and a scanner beeping behind the curved bar. A few patrons, none of any interest to you, duck their heads as Din passes. You feel them shrink into themselves, and it is just as well. You have no time for them. 

Only Crik.

Behind the counter, a lone man watches your approach. He braces both gloved hands against the bar, his brow knit in a tight frown. His eyes slide from Din to you then back again. 

“You’re not from around here.” His voice is knotted and thick, as though he rarely speaks above a whisper. 

Din looks over his shoulder, and you feel him look at you, nudging you forward with a pointed stare. Your mission, your bounty—Crik is all yours, and Din will not deny you the pleasure of taking him in by your own merit.

Pushing forward, you move to stand in front of Din. He towers over you, the breadth of his chest a comfort against your back. His hand, the one not resting on the counter, settles at your hip, fingers tucking around the grip of your holstered blaster. 

“My partner and I… we are looking for someone willing to part with information in exchange for credits.”

The bartender’s frown deepens. “Credits won’t get you nowhere here.”

You expected as much, but refuse to let the momentary disappointment show on your face. You arch a brow. “Really? The brand new cycler rifle hanging on the wall there tells me otherwise.” The bartender does not glance in the direction of the weapon, but his eyes narrow. “We deal in credits, not weapons, but we are willing to be generous.”

Tilting his head back, the bartender studies you. “What makes you think I have what you need?”

A saccharine smile unwinds the terse pout of your lips. “Call it women’s intuition.”

The bartender huffs and drops his hands from the bar counter. “You can ask, but I can’t promise I have the answer.”

“That’s fine. Give us what you can.” It is the first time Din speaks in the dimly lit cantina. He is impatient in these middling moments, but you don’t mind them. You have always enjoyed the seemingly inconsequential decisions and conversations that ultimately propel you to bringing down a bounty. It is in the series of unknowns before the inevitable downfall of your mark that you find the greatest thrill.

Cocking his head to the side, the bartender shuffles for a room adjacent to the bar. You follow, two steps, three, then pause as the man orders the straggling customers to fend for themselves. Five minutes, he says. You inhale, swallowing the lump in your throat. Five minutes.

The storeroom of the cantina is reminiscent of the storeroom in which you first met the Mandalorian. The same cramped and crowded closet in a backwater cantina. The same smell of dust in the air and spice hidden within boxes. The same man, cloaked in gray, corded with power. If you had the time, you would pause to reflect on the change in you, the change in him, these past one-hundred-ten days, but as it stands: time is running thin. 

“Before I tell you anything”—The bartender turns around from the door, leveling an accusatory finger at you—“you tell me who you are.” 

“No.” Din stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands set firmly on his hips. “The deal is information for credits. That’s it.”

“But I—”

“No info, no credits.”

Any further protest sours on the man’s tongue. His lips curl upward. “Fine.” He crosses his arms, shoulders hunched inward. “What do you want to know?”

You resist the urge to glance at Din for approval. It has been a long time since you took the lead on a bounty. Since the disaster with Breeth, you have felt uncertain about your abilities as a bounty hunter. But Din stands beside you, patient in his silence, so you will your thumping heart to settle. 

“What can you tell me about this man?” 

Reading your cue, Din unearths Crik’s blinking fob from his pocket. He presses the center button, revealing a holographic image of Rendell Crik that rotates in a circle. Pale blue illuminates the chrome of Din’s helmet as the bartender studies the image.

The bartender raises a finger to his chin in thought. His eyes narrow. His lips purse. A flash of impatience tightens your chest. How long does it take to string a thought together, for Maker’s sake? You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I’ve heard tell…”

Impatience gives way to intrigue. You lean forward. “And?”

“About thirty klicks from here. There’s a camp.”

“What kind of camp?”

With a smirk, the man tilts his head. In his eye, a greedy twinkle. “That will cost you.”

Thud. The bartender’s back hits the wall, and a row of jars on a neighboring shelf clang as they jostle together. Din holds his forearm against the bartender’s neck. He angles the visor of his helm so that the bartender must look down, down into the face of destruction itself.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“I told you! A camp—thirty klicks away!” 

Din leans in, his forearm pressing, pressing into the man’s neck. The bartender’s face contorts into a pained grimace. His ankles bang against the wall behind him as he struggles against Din’s grip. You hold your breath.

“That’s not enough.” Din’s voice is terse, the swipe of a whip against the ground. “You know more.”

Shaking his head, the bartender sputters. “Not much! Only rumors from the other bounty hunters!”

Din’s feet shuffle as he steps closer to the wall, pushing further into the man’s already limited space. A flush begins to rise from the base of the man’s neck. His eyes grow larger, wider, rounder as they bulge outward from the leathery flesh of his face. 

“Only what? Say it!”

The bartender will be of no use to you dead or unwilling. You see the opportunity for information begin to fade like blood in a watery pool. Your five minutes are almost up.

Stepping forward, you place a hand on Din’s shoulder. He stills, and the man’s panicked eyes dart to you. He pants against Din’s forearm, sweat like a crown upon his brow.

“Tell me what you know of Rendell Crik and the camp,” you say, tone even, gaze soft. “And my partner won’t kill you.”

/ 

The bartender was not bluffing when he said thirty klicks to Crik’s camp. 

By the time the speeder sputters to a stop behind a jagged outcrop of ice one klick away from the camp, you are sure the blood in your veins is frozen. Despite the layers covering you head to foot, a cold unlike anything you have ever known has melded to your bones, chilled the breath in your lungs, squeezed the life from your very soul. You are tired, bone weary from the frigid air and unrelenting wind. 

Gods-teeth! Hardly a few hours into the hunt and already the elements have taken their toll. Your father’s warning rings loud in your ear: Hoth?! No one survives out there. Maybe he was right. Maybe, after everything that has transpired, Hoth is too much of a risk. After all, you have rekindled the relationship with your parents. Isn’t it enough to be returned to the family fold? 

No, it’s not. So long as Jeelia’s space at the table your father carved with his own hand is empty, it will never be enough. You cannot stop now, not when you have come this far. 

Leaning against the wide base of the ice block, you lift your head from the crook of your arm where you press your forehead into the dark and frigid abyss. Frost hangs at the end of your lashes. You blink, searching for Din and his stupid helmet between the swirling colors of gray sky and white snow. Panic grips the raw edges of your psyche, and for a moment, you are in Coruscant, alone and afraid.

But he is there, as he always is, beside you. He kneels at the edge of the ice block, one hand against the ice itself, the other tight around a pair of binoculars. 

“So, what now?” 

Din twists to look at you over his shoulder. Something in your face—perhaps the chapped skin at your cheeks, the glassy look that surely clouds your eyes—makes him turn away from the camp. He hooks the binoculars to his hip. 

“First we eat something.”

You frown and sit up as Din shuffles through the contents of a pannier draped over the speeder. “I can go on. We don’t need to stop. Not when that guy said he heard from others that—” 

“Forget what he said. We got the information we needed and we made it to the camp. Anything else he said was bullshit. Don’t let it fester.” Din passes you a cloth secured with a piece of twine. “Now eat. We won’t get to Crik on an empty stomach.”

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a triangle of tea-smoked silk bread. A lump forms in your throat. You skim your thumb across the flaky crust, layers of sugared and spiced silkwheat falling from the confection. Your favorite, your mother’s best recipe. Memories of afternoons beside the hearth, your fingers sticky with fresh dough, flood your mind.

“She gave it to me.” Din’s whisper cuts through your reverie. You look up to search the impassible gleam of his helm. “Before we left Inora. She said it was your favorite and I should keep it for the moment you need it most.”

With a rueful chuff, you tear off a corner of the bread. “Is this that moment?”

“You’re doubting yourself. I can see that much.”

You wince. His words ring true, clanging against the rising fear that clutches your throat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you cannot help but feel that your future rests in the outcome of this hunt. Is it worth it—to go on after catching Crik? Could you continue to skate through the stars on a whim and a prayer and the hope that you (or Din) don’t fall to a well-aimed blaster? Would the Mandalorian come with you if you asked him to shirk the Guild, or Mandalore, or his son?

You suppose the outcome of this hunt will answer the unanswerable. 

You hesitate before putting the bread in your mouth. “Am I really so obvious?”

“Usually.” Din’s voice glows, as much a warmth to your core as any fire. 

“I can hear your smile and I don’t like it.” Grin fading, you finish the silk bread. The flavor barely registers as you consider the hours before you. “I can do this,” you say.

“I know.” Din moves from his haunches to a crouch. He pulls his blaster from the holster at his side. “Ready?”

Ghosts of your mother’s tender touch seep through the bread cloth in your hand, warming you. Ghosts of your sister’s gentle spirit tangle within the memories dancing in your mind. Your mother, your sister—they urge you onward. 

You shove the bread cloth in your pocket. “Ready.”

/

Crik’s alleged-camp sits square in the middle of fuck nowhere. It stands in contrast with the rest of its surroundings: a hastily built circle of tan buildings, each connected by long rectangular passageways, like a spider sinking in a glass of bantha milk. A flickering orange light emanates from the center of the compound, creating a halo over a godless palace. 

Clearing your throat, you swipe the sleeve of your arm under your dripping nose. No more time to waste. No more moments of silence to descend into murky pits of the unknown. You told Din you were ready—and you are. Once and for all. 

“What’s our plan?” You cock your head in the direction of the camp. “We can’t just waltz up and knock on the door.”

Din huffs in amusement. “Looks like some already tried.” 

He passes you the heavy electrobinoculars. Pressing the lens to your eyes, you swing your gaze around the corner of the ice block. The world shifts to a hazy blue, lines of numbers and text bleeding across the top of and bottom of your vision, but you are able to make out the entrance of the camp in the distance. You zoom in. 

A head on a spike. Bloated, black tongue hanging from a broken jaw. Blood frozen in thick streams that never reached the ground. Above, dangling from a watchtower, a body. Neck snapped, head bowed, indistinguishable. Swaying, gently twisting in the harsh wind.

You push the binoculars away. “So the plan?”

Din considers your question before pointing to the right side of the compound. “We go in that way. A service entrance from what I can tell. A carrier went in not too long ago. Crik seems to be stocking up for the long haul.”

Before you stop yourself, you mumble, “Not if I can help it.”

Din pierces you with a sharp look. “Now isn’t the time to get cocky.” 

“I know. I just—”

“Take the binoculars again. Look up at the guard tower.” Ever the student, you do as he commands. “What do you see?”

“Guards.” You struggle to keep the bite out of your voice. 

“How many?”

“At least four.”

“Count them.”

Irritation tightens your jaw, but you obey, pausing long enough to count each individual stalking the length of the compound. “Five. And that’s only outside.” You lower the binoculars and pass them back with a none-too-gentle slap to the hand. “Point taken.”

“Good. So we go in through the service entrance and work our way closer to Crik from there. But before we go any further”—Din wrestles with the chest plate beneath his cloak—“put this on.” 

He offers his chest plate with little fanfare. It is merely a thing in his hand which he is presenting. The flight suit beneath his armor is dark. His uncovered chest rises and falls, patient, even breaths as he waits for you to accept the offering. 

“What?” You balk, spreading your hands in a sign of rejection. “Absolutely not! That’s yours! What are you even thinking?”

“Take it, Scout.” 

“Mando, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will.” Din grabs your hands, forcing them to wrap around the chilled metal. The outward facing side is cold, but the inside is still warm where it rested against his chest, where it covered his heart. “You will put it on and then maybe I will be able to fucking breathe through this thing.”

You look up, and not for the first time, you feel as though you are looking onto his naked face. The chest plate weighs heavy in your hands, but Din’s words weigh heavier. The warning signs posted around the camp are clear enough: this won’t be easy. It won’t be safe either. Din Djarin will do whatever it takes to get you the justice you so deserve. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, too.

You refuse to look at him as you press the chest plate to your body. He leans forward, reaching around your back to fold and adjust the clasps at either side. His touch is light. His movements are unsure. Reality hangs tenuous between you, fragile like thin glass. One wrong step, and Maker, you may break. 

He pulls back, chest plate secure, and his fingertips skim the rough fabric of your trousers. 

“Thanks.” Your whisper plumes in the air. You hold your hand to your armored chest. 

He nods. And then he is moving, reaching for you, and you cannot help but reach for him too. 

Your arms clutch his pauldrons, fingernails digging into the human flesh you find there. He is real. Right now he is real, and you are safe, and you can still touch him. Moisture lifts behind your eyes, but you push it down. There’s no time; not now.

“We’ll be fine.” You close your eyes, digging your teeth into the skin of your cheek to keep the mounting emotions at bay. “We will laugh about this on the other side.”

Hands clasped against either side of your face, Din presses his forehead to yours. “I lo—”

“No. Don’t say it.” You press your fingertips to his helm, to the shape of his mouth somewhere beneath layers of steel. “After. Tell me after.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay.” A single finger catches in your hair, and you wonder if he is memorizing you. “After.”

You are the first to move, rising from your crouch to a battle-ready stance. 

By your rough estimate, the service entrance to the compound is one klick away. Five guards patrolling the perimeter, barely any natural formations to give you cover as you cross the terrain. With Din’s reduced armor, his black flight suit may as well be a beacon in this white tundra. You could go by foot and risk someone catching sight of Din’s flight suit, or you could use the speeder and take the chance that someone may hear the engine running as you approach. 

You decide to go on foot. Between the unrelenting wind and drifting snow, you will pray to the Maker the patrolmen are shortsighted. Once you get closer to the service entrance itself, you will transition to a crawl. From there—

You’ll figure it out if you manage to make it that far.

At his behest, Din walks in front of you. He is bigger and therefore blocks more of the wind. His footfalls create an easy path for you to follow through the mounting snow. Both combined will make for a shorter trek. 

Step after step, you trudge through the shin-deep blizzard. You clutch your scarf to your mouth, breathing hard as you slog. 

“Forty yards then we crawl.” Din’s voice crackles through the earpiece snug in your left ear.

Large flakes of snow catch in your eyelashes when you glance up to the battlement. The camp widens as you draw nearer. A well-camouflaged cancer, you think. Tucked away in some remote corner of the universe, silent but deadly, growing with every passing day. Sickness oozes from every crack and crevice of the stone facade. You can practically smell it. 

He’s there—in the camp—lounging or eating or fucking—and you are here, outside, waiting to strike.

Din lowers to his stomach when the camp’s shadow falls across his boots. Though the snowfall has picked up, adding another layer of cover, you can never be too careful. You follow his lead, crawling across the ground, using your knees and forearms to propel your movement.

Snow and ice gathers in the folds of your suit; the damp, moist feeling is quick to follow. The mineral-taste of fresh snow laden with atmospheric junk sours on your tongue. You spit, shaking your head free of the snow catching and freezing to your hair.

“Almost there.”

Your forearms ache, and you can feel the warm trickle of blood at your knee. Rugged ground beneath your arms and ice at every turn threatens to push you to injury before crossing the threshold of the camp. You suck in a breath and push forward. 

Finally, the service entrance pokes through the thickening wall of snow. The hangar door stands open, and a pale yellow light attempts to pierce the unrelenting white of the landscape.

When Din stands, you too rise on quaking limbs. “The snow,” you gasp. “I think it helped.”

He checks his vambrace. “Sensors read an incoming blizzard. We got here at the right time.”

You could say something about the total whiteout surrounding you already being of help, but you save your breath.

Din holds his blaster close, gesturing to the one at your hip with the muzzle of his weapon. “Be ready,” he says. “Whoever, whatever—take it out.”

You nod. 

He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more, and you think this would be the moment he could shed his helmet and kiss you. Man to woman. Human to human. You would readily accept the moment, bleed into his kiss, meld into his body, but—

He simply nods. 

Turning, Din hugs the wall as he stalks the length of the empty hangar. You keep to his shadow, footsteps light and practiced. At the other side of the room, there is a door which must enter the sanctity of the camp itself. After skirting workbenches and mislaid tools, you reach it. Din tries the handle. It swings open.

Warmth billows from the corridor like the breath of hell. You squint against the firelight that swallows the hallway and the meeting room beyond. No time for hesitation; no time for adjustment. You squeeze your eyes open and shut and follow Din into the hallway wrapping around a communal hall.

The hall, square and narrow beneath a triangular roof, is void of life. A fire roars in the center of the room, logs piled high, flames licking out like demon tongues. You step quietly, studying the crates and barrels cluttered around the fire. No discernible features on any of the wooden boxes. Still, you doubt anyone will be feeding them to the fire anytime soon. The compound is too silent, too distracted. You feel it in the air, the false security of an incoming storm. 

Only the storm is already here.

Din’s footfalls thud in the stone hallway. You grit your teeth, praying to the gods everyone is asleep or otherwise distracted. You are here for Crik and only Crik. 

You curl your trigger finger against the blaster’s sear. 

“Hey!”

A voice—behind you. 

Twisting at the hip, you shoot before you see, but it does not matter. Din said whoever, whatever and you agree. If it takes Crik down, if it gets your sister the eternal rest she deserves, you will tear the camp to pieces with your bare hands.

Your shot hits the shoulder of a guard at the opposite end of the hallway. He grabs his wound, doubling over with a shout of pain and alarm. Din pushes past you, moving fast, his blaster holstered, his hands free. He grabs the guard before he can right himself. The guard looks up, eyes wild, mouth open to shout a warning signal. 

But you are there before he can make a sound. Your blood runs hot. This is it. It is happening, unfolding before you in slow motion. Justice tastes sweet. 

You cram the muzzle of your blaster in the slack-jawed guard’s mouth. His eyes drop to you, and he grunts, his tongue flailing against the barrel of your blaster. You shoot, you retreat, the body hits the ground as Din steps back. 

Down the hall now—away from the fire and the body, into a darker part of the camp.

Music wafts from some secret corner of the compound. Din looks at you as if to ask the question: That way? You nod. 

Your footsteps are the only sound as you follow the stonework of the compound’s hallways. The music, some lilting birdsong, grows louder, and your blood runs thicker, hungrier as Crick draws nearer. 

Another guard steps out of a dark alcove, blaster raised. Din withdraws a throwing star from a compartment in his vambrace. He flicks it outward, catching the guard’s wrist. The blaster falls, and you scoop it from the ground. Din’s fist lands against the guard’s cheekbone. He falls back, holding his face in pain. You bring the blaster grip down on his temple. 

Onward. The music pulses now, or maybe it is just your heartbeat. Your sister’s face floats before you, some ghostly image or vision that buoys you forward.

“Wait.” Din holds out his arm, and you nearly run into it.  

You stand in the doorway of a new common area. Music spills into the hall. A singer you cannot see from your vantage point sings about love. Their voice lifts over the sound of conversation, each syllable a honeyed-tenor. The song builds, words of devotion and ardor, feelings of passion and desire. You do not allow yourself to fall prey to the heightening emotion; you keep your eyes fixed on the room within. On the man with the shaved head and the scar on his cheek.

The song hits its crescendo, the singer’s voice frozen in a high note.

Din snaps his fingers. “Now.”

Bursting into the room, you shoot blindly. You counted five men when in the doorway. Five of them, two of you. You like those odds. 

Blasterfire pings in every corner. You drop, rolling across the floor to swing your leg outward against a pudgy man’s knee. He curses as he falls, and you bring your dagger to his neck. You slice without thought. Blood gushes over your hand, staining your fingers, but you press on, knocking the man to his side.

On the other side of the room, Din carves his way through Crik’s sycophants. He moves with ease, throwing his elbow, bending to a twist when a blaster shot arcs over his head. He is heading for Crik, and you are eager to get there with him.

A female Twi’lek crosses your path. She bares teeth sharpened to a point. You raise your dagger, and she lifts a shortsword, grinning.

She thrusts first, and you parry. You whirl on your heel, bringing your blade in a wide arc over your head and shoulders. The Twi’lek ducks and catches the back of your leg with the point of her sword. You clench your jaw, but do no more to let the pain show on your face. Lurching forward, you grab the back of a nearby chair. The Twi’lek pauses for breath, pauses to watch her surroundings, pauses to watch the blood that streams down your leg. 

Big mistake.

You lift the chair in your hand and swing. It catches the Twi’lek in the stomach. She stumbles backward. You do not let go. You run, pushing against the Twi’lek with the seat of the chair. She frowns, fingers grabbing for the legs of the chair for some upperhand, but you push harder, forcing her across the floor until she hits the wall with a heavy thud. You drop the chair and bring your blaster up, eye level with your opponent. 

“Fucking bitch,” she mutters. 

You can’t help but grin. “Always.”

You slam your forehead against her face. Stars wash over your vision, but you feel her nose crack against your forehead. 

Stumbling backward, you shake your head free of the immediate pain of the headbutt. The Twi’lek curses as she clutches her nose, blood dripping from beneath her fingers. She looks up at you, rage like a steel trap in her eyes. 

She bolts. Blood flows from her nose, leaking onto the neck of her shirt, flinging in a shower of droplets onto the ground. Arms pumping, she advances on you. You stand your ground, dagger in one hand, blaster in the other. 

You’ll take her down. You know you can.

You brace for impact, but the Twi’lek veers for the right. You frown, stepping back to adjust your position. Only she is up, in the air, jumping, her foot hitting off a support beam in the center of the room. She pounces, and she is flying, circling over you like a predator over prey.

Now it is you who is stumbling. You card backward, glancing from the incoming Twi’lek to Din, who advances on Crik with one of the remaining guards at his back. Crik strikes outward with a shortsword. He hits Din’s unarmored stomach, and Din stops his advance, pausing long enough to show a moment of pain. 

Your attention slips. The Twi’lek descends. The hilt of her sword lands hard on the left side of your skull.

Pain explodes over your head in radiant bursts of light and fire. You fall, shouting out as you collapse. Your forearms break the fall as you catch yourself with whatever sense you have left, but you cannot rise to your feet. A bell clangs in your head; your mind feels sluggish. It is as if you have been rendered mute and immoveable. You have become a rock, and the stream of life flows all around you. The fight continues on, but you cannot join in. 

Blood pools in your mouth. A tooth? Your tongue? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

Tears well in your eyes as the clanging continues. Your head feels heavy, and your stomach heaves against the pain. You wretch, and the revolt in your stomach pushes you on to your hands and knees. You vomit, and somewhere overhead the Twi’lek laughs. 

“Yes,” she says. “Definitely a bitch.”

You stumble to your feet, eyes lazy as they swing from one side of the room to the other. You are underwater, surely. You cannot hear, and you cannot see, and you cannot think. You must be drowning. This is what drowning feels like.

You mumble something around a thick tongue. The Twi’lek cocks her head, laughing still. “What was that?” she asks. “I didn’t really hear you.”

There are two of her now, twins that ebb and flow like the tide, a double of evil. You cannot determine the true twin, the one who must have come first, but you see them both, and you hate them both, and that must be enough. 

With a cry, you fall forward, your dagger pointed and at the ready. The Twi’lek catches you, but she does not catch your dagger, the one hidden beneath your sleeve. It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. You grit your teeth as you push harder, harder, until the hilt seems to disappear within her oozing and bleeding flesh.

She is silent as she falls, her eyes bouncing between yours. Blood rises to the corners of her mouth, and she gasps for breath. You drop to your knees with her as the life floods from her face. You place her head on the ground, and you hover over her, watching as her soul slips.

“Fuck-k-ing bii-tchh,” she gargles. Blood spills over her lips as she gags. 

Gasping, sucking air into your throat and your lungs and your soul, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s never been a question.”

Her head lolls to the side. 

You look up across the room to Din. He stands face to helmet, arm in arm, with Rendell Crik. Though your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, you cannot stop. He is near, at your fingertips. He is surrounded by the bodies of his stupid, oafish lackeys, and you are here, and he is held by the most powerful man on the planet. 

You rise on shaking legs. You swipe your hand over your mouth. Rendell Crik fills your vision. You take one step forward.

A shot rings out.

The Mandalorian falls.

NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

[wickedsmille]

batman, robin, sentient super suits, oh my!

I got this idea stuck in my head and rather than committing it to the 15 page graveyard of other story ideas, I actually wrote it! (I'm so proud of me :'3) The aforementioned is. . . . The suits/costumes are sentient! With limited autonomy!! And their own personalities!!! So, yep. This one might actually make it onto AO3 when part two is done.

Probably rated T because Jason. Did not edit because nope. Sillies at the end because of Jason's Tim!feelings and stellar repression skills.

(Here's Part 2!)

-----

Imagine Jason’s surprise when Bruce leads him down to the Cave, the Batcave, and he spots the costumes of Batman and Robin innocuous in their cases. The bright lights above them shine down, illuminating the bright colors of Robin and glistening off the dark planes of armor of Batman. All four feet of Jason was vibrating with excitement. Patiently with a small, private smile, Bruce guided him towards the cases.

The closer he gets, Jason notices how they’re not on mannequins. A few more steps and he can’t spot any internal structures keeping them up or wires suspending them. Curiously enough, the costumes seem to be standing of their own accord. He didn’t question it as he came to stand right before the glass. His hand rose to press against the case, mouth open wide in awe and eyes about the size of dinner plates.

Now, just picture how a tiny, baby Jason reacted when the Robin suit recoiled. The fabric gathered together and plastered itself to the other side of the case away from Jason. The neck of the suit shifted back and forth like an invisible body was shaking its head. Pulling his hand away as if he’d been burned, Jason took a staggering step back and looked to Bruce for answers. The man stared at the case, eyes narrowed and mouth pinched into a thin line of disapproval.

It was then Bruce explained the nature of suits and the heroes they choose. Here Jason had thought Bruce created Batman and Robin, not the other way around.

Apparently one night, after getting the hair-brained idea to take to the night to fight crime with nothing but his wits and an arsenal of R&D weaponry, Batman came to him. The suit was in his study hanging off the clock. As he stepped inside the room, the suit slithered off the clock to stand before him. Tall, dark and imposing. Written in quickly disappearing fog on the glass of the clock was the name Batman.

Robin was all Dick until he decided to leave it behind. It came to Dick mid-swing from the chandelier. One second he’s flipping through the air to reach the banister, the next he’s flailing wildly after misjudging the distance. Robin caught him, the sleeve of the suit wrapped tightly around his wrist. Then the suit skittered down the stairs to the main foyer, wild and energetic as it seemed to do a round-off, onodi, bridge, illusion and finished with a needle. Again and again till Dick’s face lit up like the sun itself. Robin became a permanent fixture next to Batman from then on.

Robin was devastated after Dick left it but it still took months for Bruce to coax the suit into engaging with Jason. He did everything he could to help. Sitting and even sleeping in front of the case. Whispering his secrets and wants to the layers of kevlar and nomax. He told Robin things he could barely admit to himself let alone anyone else. It was after Jason confessed how much he loved his mom and dad in equal measure that Robin finally accepted him. That night, when Bruce opened the case and once more tried to take the suit out, it came easily where normally it was immovable. 

The tight fabric slipped on like it had been made for Jason and Jason alone. Deep down, he knew it hadn’t been. The suit made his chest hum and his skin tingle but it was like wearing someone else’s skin. The discordant feeling didn’t stop Jason from fully losing himself to the magic of Robin. Even when Dick loudly protested Jason using the suit but what could he do? Robin chose Jason, eventually, even if Dick hadn’t. 

Maybe that’s why Robin couldn’t as effectively protect him from the Joker as Batman did for Bruce night after insane night tangling with the rogues. 

For a long time, Jason didn’t have a suit aside from the grave clothes he clawed his way back to the land of living in. Time gets fuzzy from there but he doesn’t remember another suit coming to him. Not then and not after Talia took him in, healing his body while his mind stayed locked up till she tosses him into the Pit against her father’s wishes. Jason suffered under the League and its training, shuffled off periodically to one master or expert or another to learn more about demolition and explosives, firearms and sharp shooting, spy craft and more. 

When Red Hood comes to him, Jason is just coming back to his clay walled room with its moth bitten wool blanket and wood cot, blood on his knuckles and the beginnings of a nasty shiner. He’s who-the-hell-knows where. Talia never did see fit to keep him in the loop no matter how loudly or persistently he pestered her for details. She dolled out what she wanted when you wanted to achieve whatever twisted goal she’d cooked up in her head. Like siccing him on Bruce and the whole of Gotham like a living nightmare tailor made to make Bruce hurt.

Seeing a suit laid out across his cot has been the most significant deviation from his routine in a long time. Long enough the site of the black tactical gear and heavy armor visibly startles him. His hand tightens around the handle of his door as he stares unabashedly at the suit. 

“What the fuck is that?” he asks, pointing to the red helmet facing the doorway at the head of the bed.

The sleeve of the leather jacket raises up a couple inches. The buckle around the wrist rises up straight and Jason doesn’t need to be a genius to know his suit just flipped him the bird. He returns the gesture and the lenses of the helmet flare a bright white before going out again. 

“Well, aren’t you cheery.”

The entire upper part of the suit shudders in what he assumes is a shrug. Cheeky. He kind of hates it.

He’s trying very hard to not look a gift horse in the mouth despite his suit’s apparent attitude. It’s not as showy as Robin, thank god. There’s a cliff with his name on it, ripe for pitching himself off of, if he got a gimmicky costume. He’d take his chances rolling back into Gotham in a t-shirt and jeans then toss on another pair of undies and tights. The mercenary look is much preferred and appreciated.

Besides, despite the attitude, this suit is his. Not some hammy down Bruce needed to coax into accepting Jason.  

“What am I supposed to call you?”

The lenses of the helmet light up again but this time they stay on. Cautiously, he takes a couple steps closer. The suit doesn’t move again, patiently waiting for him. Nothing happens so he closes the distance and gingerly picks up the helmet. The metal of it is warm beneath his fingers and a hum starts deep in his chest. The helmet slips on easily and fits like a glove. A wash of colors and symbols scroll across the HUD as it springs to life. 

The screen blanks out entirely then a burst of red that settles into the words Red Hood. Then Lets fuckin do this bitch it reads.

“Huh,” Jason says. “Huh.”

Red Hood is an asshole apparently though he can’t deny the poetic justice of taking on the old name of his murderer. Terrorizing Bruce is going to be so fun.

Jason leaves for Gotham that night. 

Within three months, he has his claws in Crime Alley and a burgeoning drug empire. It takes him six months to properly align the pieces around the board so he can set his plans for Batman into action. He’s a veritable force of nature when he’s wearing the Red Hood. Bullets glance off the armor, knives slip right past and the brass knuckles sewn into the gloves teach as effective a message when he needs to get up close and personal. It allows him the space and strength he needs to wrestle the city under his control so he can start making moves.

He becomes the Red Hood.

Things don’t go as planned though, per say. 

He barely hobbles away from the confrontation with Batman and the Joker. At least this time, with the Red Hood, he does walk away. 

The world is a whirlwind of sights and sounds, colors and impressions. He works himself down to the bone till the bitterness and anger dissipate enough for him to feel like a person again. Separating Jason Todd from the Red Hood, making the distinction rather than losing himself to the suit, is one of the most difficult things he’s ever done. 

Red Hood isn’t happy about it and makes it known with the hard hits he takes. Not enough to threaten his life. Until Jason is facing down at least thirty heavily armed guys and the building is rigged to blow. The suits can do a lot of things like help Batman become one with the shadows and keep the laws of gravity from gripping too tightly to Robin. Red Hood is built for protection through thick armor for Jason and a nasty assortment of weaponry for those who hurt others. 

But they do have their limits. 

Jason just never thought he would reach it except he does and it leaves him bleeding out in some dingy back alley in Gotham. He presses hard against the wound on his side around the jagged piece of metal sticking out to stem the bleeding. His head is throbbing in time with the beating of his heart. The harder it pounds, the more it slows, the less Jason thinks he’ll make it out of this one. He’s fuckin’ clawed and crawled, sweat and bled and turned himself inside out again and again and this is how he goes? Bullshit. Straight up bullshit.

He blinks the sweat out of his eyes and forces himself to focus as the HUD flickers on and off. The light of it is faint as the air filtration system hums loudly. A tiny icon pops up in the corner that hadn’t been there before. Some simple silhouette of a person’s bust. It clicks open without his say so and the screen darkens before it springs back, determined and stubborn. 

Pictures and words flash across the display, too quick for him to properly make any of it out since his brain is as good as scrambled eggs at the moment. It centers on a cartoon version of Batman’s face, complete with comically severe scowl. Jason frowns and shifts, wincing at the white hot flare of pain shooting up his side. And his arm. Shit, guess he’s not just dealing with the shrapnel in his side.

“Don’t you dare,” Jason rasps in warning. 

In answer, his suit selects the icon and, to his immense surprise, it immediately connects to the comm network the Bats use. You know, the heavily encrypted one only the masters of top tier hackers have ever been able to get into. The one he isn’t supposed to have access to. At least, he didn’t think so. Things haven’t been bad with Batman and his clown car of other bats and birds. They haven’t been good either. 

“Hood,” Batman acknowledges with a hint of confusion and trepidation. Jason groans but it tapers off in a pained grunt as he shifts and the metal lodged in side moves with him. “Hood, report,” Batman demands, confusion abandoned for concern. 

It’s touching in that I-wish-this-weren’t-happening-but-since-we’re-here kind of way. 

He doesn’t say anything so his voice modulator whirs loudly in protest of his silence. Fucking suit. Civilians truly don’t know how lucky they are to not be dogged and bullied by sentient costumes and, wow, when he thinks about it that way it is incredibly weird. He may not be thinking clearly either since he’s pondering the very existence of the hero communities suits rather than answering. Concussion, maybe? Probably, he decides as a wave of nausea rises up.

Swallowing past the bile, Jason projects as much chipper nonchalance as he can when he replies, “Not much going on here. Might’ve gotten blown up. A little. Tis but a flesh wound.”

“Location,” Batman growls. 

“The intersection of Nun-ya-business and Fuck-off,” Jason says because he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t take every chance to be a shit to Bruce. Although, now may not be the time for it since black spots are dancing across his vision and he feels the bad kind of numbness sneak in. 

Jason’s locator flips on and a message goes direct to Bruce with his coordinates. Red Hood is a traitor. He’d rage at his suit for being so presumptuous and taking liberties. Most suits back down on playing such an active role after they choose their wearer. Maybe an automatic switch in imaging or restocked first aid supplies in a pocket. Never this. His suit is a busy body. To think, the fearsome Red Hood with all its holsters and extra layers of armoring and plating, a mother hen.

Not the worst thing, he guesses, as he loses consciousness.  

Coming out of a three day sedation to the bright overhead lights of the medical bay in the Cave with Batman looming over him, fully suited up and staring, a traumatic enough experience Jason readily steals his alternate-universe’s Red Robin suit. Unlike his own universe, this one doesn’t have to deal with fabric capable of higher thinking. The Red Robin suit is just that. A suit and nothing more, nothing less. It’s simple and perfect when he’s still angry at the Red Hood suit.

Running a few patrols back in his Gotham proves him wrong. Very, very wrong. 

He forgets to restock his belt and his hand meets an empty pocket on the belt where there should be smoke pellets. Except he used them the night before when breaking up a gang initiation. The armor plating doesn’t shift the quarter an inch Jason needs to avoid getting nicked with a knife. Plus switching between lenses in the mask manually is annoying. And needing his hand to work the comms? Horrible. 

Playing as Red Robin, the incredibly unexceptional and totally normal super-suit, shows him how spoiled he was with the Red Hood. 

Thoroughly frustrated, Jason tears into his safe house and tears out of the suit. He kicks it off into the corner then kicks it again because fuck this. He’s over it. So over it. Hopefully Red Hood isn’t salty about being benched and relegated to the cache he has hidden in the ceiling. 

Moving aside the ceiling tile and sneezing from the dust and what he hopes isn’t asbestos, Jason grabs the lock box. He pulls it close then lets it drop unceremoniously onto the floor. Sue him, the thing is heavy. A ball of writhing unease makes a home in Jason’s gut as he kneels next to the box and starts methodically disarming the security on. His hands hesitate opening the lid. 

What if the Red Hood decided to fuck off to parts unknown wherever these things go when they get retired?

Then he realizes how stupid it is to be mostly naked aside from his undershirt and shorts, scared to face the consequences of his own actions. He built the mythos of the Red Hood on forcing the human shaped garbage of Gotham to pay up on their moral debts. Being brash, antagonistic, caustic and aggressive he’ll own up to but Jason has always prided himself on shying away from hypocrisy. So he holds his breath and flips open the lid -

To the suit, crammed in the small metal box, lifting the sleeve of the leather jacket on top and flipping him off with the wrist buckle. Again. 

“You son of a bitch,” Jason laughs, back handing the buckle. Looking over his shoulder at the disarray of the Red Robin suit, he adds, “Look, it’s not me. It’s you.”

The next night, when he gets suited up and pulls the iconic red helmet of the Red Hood on, Jason stands over Gotham and feels whole. Jason and the Red Hood and Jason-as-Red-Hood, co-existing peacefully within and around one another. The pieces click together, making him feel lighter than he has in years. He thinks this must be how Bruce feels when he’s Batman or Dick when he’s Nightwing. When you know who you are. Robin was an ideal he clung to desperately even if it never quite fit right and Red Robin was a bad idea he needed to understand the nature of suits.

They weren’t his, not like the Red Hood is because it’s an autonomous extension of himself.

Because he’s not completely heartless even if the Red Robin suit lacks any sort of intelligence, Jason takes pity and dumps it in the Cave. Let Bruce or Lucius dissect the thing so they can unlock the secrets of suits. Or use it to mop the floors. Whatever, he doesn’t really care. At least it’s not his problem anymore. 

Then Tim steals the suit. It’s a theme with Tim, apparently. Jason would take it as a goad and beat his ass if Tim didn’t leave and come back different. As is, when he first sees Tim looking pale and world weary in the Cave with an equally exhausted looking but alive Bruce next to him, Jason is feeling too many things too quickly to focus on Tim’s sticky fingers. In no way does looking like warmed over shit excuse Tim for constantly taking his stuff but he can delay payback. There’s feelings he needs to repress at seeing Bruce whole and right there.

Tim doesn’t abandon Red Robin like Jason did. No, he keeps it. Why, Jason has no clue. It’s punishment enough to wear a plain Jane suit like Red Robin so Jason elects not to confront him. If Tim wants to punish himself, it saves Jason the time he would take to do it. As time goes on, they start to get along so why shake it up for something stupid like the Red Robin suit, he thinks. 

Landing softly on the roof Tim’s crouched on, Jason’s heavy boots barely make a whisper of noise as he creeps up on Red Robin. He’s bent over with his arms extended so he can scare the shit out of him. 

Jason doesn’t get the chance to. About five feet away, back still turned to Jason, Tim asks him dryly, “Can I help you?”

With a sniff, Jason straightens up. “Yeah, by not being such a fun sucker.”

“Oh, so sorry,” Tim says while not sounding at all sorry, “next time I’ll let you jump scare me so I totally blow my stake out.”

“Thank you,” Jason replies.

He can feel Tim’s eye roll even if he can’t see him. “Did you come here because you’re bored or do you need something?” Tim asks.

With a shrug Tim can’t see, Jason answers, “A little of column A, a little of column B.”

“As you can see, I’m indisposed at the moment either way.”

“Alls I see is you sitting on your ass.”

“Exactly, now shoo.”

“I will not be shoo’ed,” Jason says as he comes around and sits down next to Tim. “I am un-shoo-able.”

To prove his point, Tim twists so he’s facing Jason and makes the actual shoo’ing motion with his hands. It says a lot that Tim will give him a hard time considering their past. Never once has he shied away from Jason since he and the others got chummy again. If it were him, Jason would incessantly badger and pester and be a complete dick. But Tim has never been like that, even when he should. Like he should with Jason.

Quiet reigns over them. Tim goes back to surveying the building across the street and Jason absently watches too for lack of anything better to do. Truly, he was bored. Patrolling Crime Alley was slow, for once. Who would’ve thought? Tim happened to be the first person he came across as he was traipsing the city just because he could. Lucky him. 

“How’s the suit treating you?” Jason asks casually, honestly curious. Tim has been wearing it for months now.

A subtle tension stiffens the set of Tim’s shoulders. “Fine,” Tim says cautiously. 

“Why even keep it on? I tried since it’s all, ya know, not a semi-conscious being literally handling my tits and bits for hours a night. Didn’t work out so well for me, obviously.”

Tim chews on the inside of his cheek while his hands tighten around the binoculars pressed to mask. It’s a testament to Jason’s growth that he lets Tim think through his answer without disrupting him with a heckle or five. Plus he’s invested. He really wants to know why the hell Tim is keeping Red Robin when the alternate-dimension suit is so sub-par compared to the costumes they have. 

“I don’t have any others,” Tim finally replies, voice quiet and tight. 

Oh, oops. Looks like he stepped on a landmine without meaning to. The thought that a suit wouldn’t immediately choose analytical, ambitious and surprisingly badass Tim Drake hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

“I get that,” Jason says. “Can’t tell you how many times I’d turn a corner when I was with the League and hope there’d be a suit. Some signal like, yeah, you’re ready to leave these shitheads behind.” 

Man, he did not mean to share some deep-down, touchy-feely bullshit. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Waiting for the Red Hood was agonizing. Empty days spent learning how to snap a person’s neck and the most painful bones to break, how to engineer car bombs, what kind of scope it takes to blow someone’s brains out from five hundred yards. Never feeling ready because he didn’t have anything but his ratty jeans and tee and standard issue League garb. Wishing he’d be released from the never-ending violence that is the League because nobody else seemed keen on letting him go easy. At least with the Red Hood, he was able to convince Talia it was a sign from a higher power on how truly ready he was to ditch them and enact her not-at-all-subtle machinations.

The silence makes Jason feel awkward and uncomfortable but Tim is thoughtful when he responds, “I’ve never been chosen by a suit before.”

“Really?” Jason can’t help but ask. 

He thought Robin would’ve been scrambling to claim Tim. Robin did give Tim pants, after all. He’s always wondered if Robin kept the scaly panties just to troll Jason since it wasn’t happy with his wearing it. 

Tim nods. “I, well, Dick and Bruce were in trouble and I was there but Robin didn’t. It didn’t want anything to do with me. Alfred tried getting it to see some sense but I eventually had to wrestle it on. Robin wasn’t happy with me.”

“Huh,” Jason says because he doesn’t actually know what to say but leaving Tim hanging feels like a crime in and of itself.

Like the psycho he is, Tim laughs. “Yeah, pretty much. Robin fought me my whole tenure but I like to think I did alright. Besides, I don’t think Robin is very happy with Damian either after he forced it on. You should hear the arguments he gets in with the suit.” A vicious little smirk curls up the edge of Tim’s mouth. It’s a ruthless thing Jason likes the look of. 

Now Jason really can’t cash in Tim’s debt to him for taking yet another suit from him. Tim repurposed what was essentially his garbage because he had nothing better to use. Kind of sad, now that he thinks about it. And Tim fucked off to parts unknown with a regular ass suit to do the impossible. Actually did the impossible. Tim really is the best of them, in Jason’s humble and will-never-be-voiced opinion.

“I can imagine. You got some video footage of one?” Jason questions, steering the conversation back to safer waters. 

“No, I would never keep something like. Come on, I’m a good guy,” Tim says sarcastically.

“The only thing good about you is that mouth.”

Even though he’s the one that said it, Jason’s brain overloads and crashes all in the span of a nano second. That was definitely flirty. In no possible universe, dimension or other-world would that line not be considered flirty. He didn’t mean to do it. Right? Right, because flirting with Tim would be weird enough Jason would need to submit himself to a litany of invasive tests just to figure out what in the hell is wrong with him. Slips of the tongue do happen-

Bad analogy to use now that he’s thinking about Tim’s mouth.

“I get that a lot,” Tim says, brushing off Jason’s folly easily. 

“Get some,” Jason encourages lamely. 

In another feat of extraordinary social ineptitude, Jason reaches up and ruffles Tim’s hair but he does it too hard. It ends up being some weird combination of a noogie and hair pet. He stops that right away and instead uses Tim’s head to lever himself up. Obviously he’s not going to recover from this interaction. Several fatal blows have been dealt. The only sensible thing to do is escape as quickly as he can and go scream out the embarrassment into the void. 

Tim squawks in protest and bats away Jason’s hand. His brows are furrowed and sporting a deep set scowl as he no doubt glares at Jason for using him as a hand hold. Whatever, all the better if Tim is pissy. It means he hasn’t noticed Jason being a complete and total moron. Or picked up on the way the shivering, shimmying pool of warmth building in Jason’s belly is making him grimace and sweat.

Hands up in a gesture of surrender, Jason backs away. Satisfied, Tim goes back to watching his building. Jason backs up another step when, weirdly enough, Tim’s cape moves. Like a full on flap to the side. It opens up a brief glimpse to Tim’s backside, boots and belt and skin tight leggings, before the heavy material settles again. There’s no breeze tonight though Tim might have been fiddling with it or something. 

Jason can’t be sure. Doesn’t really care. He has a hasty retreat to get to. 

He means to retreat but Red Hood, the motherfucking, traitorous dickbag the suit is, must take some measure of joy in Jason looking like an idiot because Jason trips on the laces of his boot on his next step. Now, he’s sure he tied them. Double, triple, quadruple knotted with a complicated pattern Bruce taught them all so this exact thing wouldn’t happen. Yet, flailing and just barely saving himself from belly flopping onto the roof, when Jason looks back his laces are definitely undone and the culprit of his current predicament.

The one in which Tim turns oh so slowly with an eyebrow so high it disappears into his hairline. Judgement is pouring off Tim in palpable waves. He meets Tim’s gaze and wants to melt through the roof. 

“That wasn’t me,” he instantly denies.

“Uh huh,” Tim says dubiously which makes Jason glower. “Thanks for reminding me why I like having a regular suit.”

“You sure you don’t want to take Red Hood for a ride?” 

Jason decides he’s going to stop talking for the rest of ever. He had wanted to annoy Tim for lack of anything better to do. Not test the limits of how much mortification a person can feel before their will to live force quits. Things have gone so, so wrong. 

Tim wrinkles his nose at Jason’s offer. “No thanks,” he says simply. 

Nothing in his tone gives him away so Jason isn’t even sure if Tim picked up on the accidental and subtle as a sledgehammer come ons. He’s not about to point them out so he rolls over, ties his goddamn shoes and gets up. Carefully. In case his suit decides to do something else unforgivable. Thankfully, he doesn’t have any issues getting to the edge of the roof or setting himself up to grapple off. 

“We can play How Much Gasoline Until the Nomax Melts if you want,” Jason threatens his suit, voice barely above a whisper. Then, louder, to Tim Jason says, “Okay then, see ya, Red.”

While Jason has been preoccupied with the simple task of traversing the roof, Tim has already gone back to his task. Binoculars up, body pitched forward as he intently watches something, he waves lazily over his shoulder.  No indication is made that Tim needs him to stay and act as back up. Must be a survey and report only kind of night. All the better because Jason would rather eat concrete and sleep on glass than stay with Tim for a few hours.

He has some more emotional repression to get to in the form of whatever he’s feeling about Tim. Very important stuff.

Stay tuned for a part two! (For real this time.)

[stars-obsession-pit]

Gods, it’d be impossible to properly pull off like how I’m picturing, but imagine a story entirely from the perspective of a GIW agent.

Like, put aside all your existing knowledge of what ghosts are really like and imagine entering the story with only their knowledge. As far as you are aware, the main character is correct about their beliefs. You have no reason to doubt them (yet).

You are part of a government branch tasked with fighting monsters. Every single one of them is immune to conventional weaponry and can have a wide array of superpowers.

And they’re intelligent, too. Not like how a person is intelligent though; they’re not sentient. Sure, they can mimic it, but it’s all an illusion. Under the surface, they’re still just mindless monsters. You can’t reason with them.

Oh and also, they could be anywhere. They can theoretically spring up from any time anyone dies, or can emerge from entirely unpredictable natural portals.

And regardless of if any actual ghosts are present, the very material that makes them up can contaminate humans too. Not just making them sick, that’d be one thing, but making them monstrous in similar ways. Even if you’ve gotten rid of the ghosts, the entire town might be too far gone already.

And then, of course, the actual plot progresses. The character actually interacts with the world, and all the little inconsistencies start to add up. Maybe the character eventually notices, or maybe it’s left as fridge horror as only the reader can realize the truth of the protagonist’s ongoing evil actions.

Though of course that concept does rely on the idea that the reader doesn’t know the truth going in, which is impossible for a fanfic since readers would already be familiar with canon. So in reality, it’d have to be dramatic irony instead of a creeping realization (which could still work but feels a bit less evocative IMO). Or maybe calling it an AU would work to distract people enough, but idk.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Male Musume: Suu Me

Rules | Kofi | Monster Musume Masterlist

Since the implementation of the schedule, life with the monster boys was much easier. With the mere mention of the days that belonged to each of them, fights were broken up, arguments were settled, and they were more adamant about keeping each other in check. Even Smith’s appearances seemed to die down, his calls, and voicemails dwindling into much of nothing. The only thing you had as proof that he even remembered you all was the hefty grant. 

You would not be making the same mistake as Kurusu. You were getting that cheque, baby!

So far life has been good. You were expecting something soon, after all the mermaid was next. After the slime of course, but even that was an unknown variable.

In the anime, it was clear that Suu had made a conscious decision to pursue them and the girls had accepted her. Becoming close with the slime as she grew into herself and the home she’d joined. She was their friend. It’s not that you didn’t think they could make friends….it’s just that they acted like that was the most absurd thing to do.

“Alright, Pypi it’s your turn to roll! Here’s the die.”

“Darling, you shouldn’t bother. The peanut brain doesn’t even have hands, he’s not going to figure it out.”

“Milo, that’s mean! You don’t say that to your friend.”

“He’s not my friend.” “Oh yeah? Well.....you don’t even have a penis!”

“Pypi?!” “Yes, I do and I can promise I’m much bigger than yours!”

“Guys stop it!”

Too many times have you had to risk your limbs to stop one or the other from choking one another or poisoning each other or trying to throw each other out the window. It doesn’t scream an environment a sentient slime is going to want to join. The only one who had any chance of being decently friendly would be Centoreo but even he had his moments

One evening you found him polishing his daggers, in the living room. Turning to smile at you, when you asked him why he needed to polish it. Unlike in the anime, he doesn’t use his weapons as much; revealing the weaponry case on few occasions. 

“Because Milo thought he’d take a cheap shot while I was cooking,”

“What!? Are you okay? Is he okay? What happened?”

Centoreo squinted his eyes at his reflection in the metal, letting his even smile become lopsided as he smirked. 

“He’s just licking his wounds now. Touched a sore spot or something. You know how he is.”

“Yeah…I guess.”

You decided not to question further only noting how despite his gentleness with you that was far from the case with the others. Even more concerning Pypi the harpy, who was supposed to be the slime’s best friend, seemed far too focused on gaining your affection than making friends. 

“Ne bird-guy! You wanna play?”

“Oh Pypi these neighborhood kids want to play do you maybe want to play with them?”

“Pft-no.”

“...why not? You love playing sports.”

“Yeah with you and maybe with our chicks when we hatch them.”

“Well…what about practice?”

Pypi blushed and sighed, “I guess but only because you asked.”

BAM!

“Ow! Wahhh!”

“Pypi, apologize!”

It just seemed highly unlikely that the slime would be getting anything more than a simple welcome before being the subject for many assassination attempts. It’s a shame considering in comparison to the girls Suu actually represented one of the healthier relationships with Kurusu. Minus a couple instances of accidental drowning. A lot of the other monster girls had weird implications and violent repurcussions that usually left the human man with dire wounds. You would not be him. 

That being said just because you were able to avoid broken limbs didn’t mean you’re coming out completely unscathed. Being the only real peacemaker it was mostly up to you for order to be maintained. While Centoreo was great at breaking up fights he wasn’t a fair mediator and recently he’d been exhibiting a ‘pacifist’ style where—and you quote, ”Perhaps if we let the idiots attack one another one of them will get the job done!” 

All that meant for you was there was one less obstacle for somehow being responsible for the monster-men attacking each other. Thus using the usually ignored communal time to take a trip to the store you took the most reactive roommate of yours. 

“Oh Darling~We haven’t been on a date in sooo long!”

You lightly chuckled,”But your day was just a little while ago.”

“So? Being stuck fighting off those saboteurs is hardly a date!” 

He scooped you up, completely unbothered by the curious passerbys and the way you nervously tried to hide your face.

“But now we get to go out on a real date! And it’s the first one initiated by you!”

That was surprisingly true, with the possibility of Suu not arriving there was a growing chance that nothing would get better. That their violent bickering would continue to escalate and with no one to care for they’ll only be focusing on you. So to maybe flicker the kindling of a somewhat friendly relationship, you decided to remove instigator #1.

“..Yeah…I guess this is the first.”

Who were you to shatter his delusion? Not someone who wanted to deal with the fall out of refusing a mentally unstable naga–that’s who. If it meant that Centoreo and Pypi might bond or even team up against Milo, in his absence it would just be better for everyone you that you’ll take a single “date” for the team.

“Oh Darling why don’t we get a sundae! Or a milkshake one that we can share together!”

You let him pull you along into the pastel colored ice cream shop, ignoring the curious gazes of a couple passerbys. Speaking of passerbys that annoying couple Kurusu and the girls pass by hasn’t really shown themselves like at all. You can count on one hand the trips you and Milo have taken to town and off the top of your head you can’t think of anyone you encountered that resembled them.

“Honey! Can I have your wallet to buy the treats?”

“But Milo it doesn’t really make a difference—”

“Honey?!”

“Alright Alright, I’ll go get us a seat outside.”

“Thank you, Darling!”

Ignoring the concerned gazes of the employees you turned to do exactly as you said. Sat in your seat, fighting boredom as you watched Milo playfully hiss at the frightened employee. You could tell just by his body posture that he was only bluffing. Sighing and face-palming it dawns on you how much you’d truly come to know him and subsequently the others. What was it? Weeks? Months? Since you’ve landed in this world and assumed the main character’s role to the genderbent versions of his harem and to think it hardly truly begun. With tons more incidents and other monsters to go it was grounding for your only worry to be appeasing the three you have. A small part of you hoped by some divine intervention you’d only have them to deal with for the rest of your time here. 

Splosh!

Looking above you were certain that major droplet might signal oncoming rain but a quick look around disproved that. Writing off the sound as someone likely spilling something far away you returned to watching Milo in the window.

Sploosh!

Seeing the Naga already returning with an unbelievably loaded milkshake stuffed with two straws. It didn’t seem like he’s the cause of the mysterious splishing sound and no one inside the store seemed to either. You figured you’d ignore it since Milo was already pouting at you.

“Darling! You can’t daydream about me when I’m right in front of you! I mean I love being the only one on your mind but you’ve got to look at me babe!”

“Yeah yeah sorry, Milo I just thought I was hearing–”

“Don’t you worry about it, darling! Now take a sip of their infamous double decker, extra sweet, milkshake—”

PLOP!

“Eeeugh what is that!?”

A slime has appeared and it’s staring cutely at you as it dissolves the milkshake Milo just bought with your money. All its doing is looking up at you with yellow ‘eyes’, mimicking the tilt of your head as you inspected it. It truly was the most bizarre monster you’d come across. While it was a shock to see Milo and his tail mystically twirl around you there wasn’t a doubt that you were looking at was real. With Suu the fact you could see through them while they were still looking at you. It was completely amazing. 

Your concentration was broken by Milo, who was trying to pull the feasting slime off the disappearing milkshake. He was failing his hands only wafting through the unperturbed blob; repeating the action it made you laugh at how goofy he looked. That made the Naga pause letting a blush take over his face as he examined yours. When was the last time he’d seen you laugh so earnestly? The small smile creeping on his face fell when he realized the blob had turned from you and was looking at him. Bopping up and down with a rhythm of your laughter almost like it was trying to demonstrate that it was laughing too. 

Milo hissed loudly scaring away the remaining guests at the cafe’s front. Honestly that might have been better for the exchange if less people saw how angry he was getting over a simple slime. 

Instead of trying to grab the slime he just outright picked up the table, launching the slime and the glassware on it into the wall of an office building across the street. While the level of strength from Milo wasn’t a surprise to you, the fact it was being done in public made this feel wrong. Darting your head around you looked for anyone who was still around and holding their phone up. You found one—a teenager still in the cafe snickering at the video. Grabbing Milo’s hand had his countenance change in an instant; the rush of blood in his cheeks weakening to his usual blush.

“C-c’mon Milo maybe we should just head home or to the park…a secluded part in it.”

“Aw how forward, Darling.”

The feeling of his tail curling around you, felt restricting but anything to divide his attention. It took awhile but you eventually were able to lead him away from the populated area. With no sign of Suu nearby and most people avoiding the wooded area of the park, you decided to continue your date there. Which Milo was starting to make you regret.

“Oh Darling! You picked the perfect place! Not only are we alone but we’re so far from the families they’d hardly hear it if you let out a scream.”

“Milo I just took us here because of what happened at the cafe—”

“Hush hush it doesn’t really matter why we’re here. Just that we are and we’re finally alone.”

“Milo–” you started to scold him but stopped on the account of whiplash disorienting you. 

Faster than you can register Milo had flipped you on your back, propping your head up with the slimming side of his tail. Naturally you flailed allowing Milo to snatch your wrists with calculated precision, the rest of him lightly trapping your legs from kicking. Holding your wrists above your head he let his chilled noise trail from your cheek to the collar of your shirt where he paused. Looking at your frightened expression with a blush more intense than his angered face he bit at the cloth, teasingly beginning to tear downward. 

You wanted to scream. Anything to deter what was happening now! The second you opened your mouth the end of the tail beneath you shoved its way into your mouth; invasively pushing further down your throat doing much more than silencing you. Milo hummed his smile faltering as he fought back the sound threatening to come out. Other than the silent movement of your bodies against the grass, your muffled gagging, and Milo’s hushed whimpers if anyone did hear they’d do nothing to intervene. Looking into Milo’s eyes to plead only seemed to egg him further as the tip of his tail pulled out before pushing back in the curious gentleness it had before beginning to wane. Milo was getting louder and if it was possible his face was getting redder.

“Oh Darling will we do it? Oh~! Finally consummate our bond that I’ve been ~aw~dreaming of?”

He pulled his tail out of your mouth momentarily allowing you to breath. Coiling and curling tighter around as you coughed. Finally gaining your breath you tried to speak, his tail shoving back in. Transferring both of your wrists to one of his hands he smirked at you.

“Ah but you’ve been doing so much! I think it’s finally,” his hand tore the remaining fabric of your shirt; languidly tracing his hand along your stomach. In a teasing pace he let his index and middle finger walk to the buckle of your belt, ”time-for-you-to-feel good.”

He slashed through the belt. Your eyes began to burn as you prepared for what you hoped to avoid from the very beginning.

“Darling. Please baby look at me. I want you to look at me when I—Ahhh!”

In a flash of blue Suu descended from the treetops to firmly hold his blobness on the unprepared Naga’s head. It took him a moment before he had to unravel himself from you, all his limbs trying desperately to take off the blob hoping for air. Of course they were all unsuccessful making the naga writhe as he fought for the air he was gradually running out of. For once you didn’t feel the need to intervene. You already knew if you confronted him about this later he’d shrug you off or coo about the private conversation you were having. Maybe taking advantage of Suu to put the monster man in his place might be the best call. Milo holds out longer than you expect allowing you to reset your outfit as much as possible, taking your time to pout over the torn remains of your shirt. At one point he turns to you reaching out as if you could do better than he—your response being a tongue stuck out as you held up the remains of your shirt. Its after another two minutes that Milo starts to slow, barely fighting any more. That’s when the tiny eensy bitty little feeling of guilt comes in.

“Hey Suu, maybe you can let up for now?”

The blob’s eyes look to you, to stare. For a minute you wonder if they even understand you, thinking back it took Papi and the girls a minute to actually get Suu to communicate. Just as you begin to think about how you’d go about removing the slime, Suu seems to expand. Doing the exact opposit of you ask to fully engulf the torso of the naga, who’s no longer struggling.

“C-c’mon please don’t kill him! He get’s on my nerves sometimes but I really don’t want him to die.”

You try in vain to grab a hold of Suu who continues to stare as they grow. Worried that this wasn’t a matter of suffocating but actually catching and eatting prey that they were exhibiting. It’d make sense that a slime, smart enough to evolve to speak would pick up on Milo’s earlier intent to kill them and was now retaliating. 

So many thing had changed in this version of the world…

You just didn’t think it’d constitute one of the main character’s dying.

“Suu please! Don’t Suu!”

You kept your hands in them holding on to Milo as his blinking was getting slower and slower. Looking through the blue haze at the first student you housed, the finality of this moment dawning as he tried to smile at you. The quirk of his lips so small you barely noticed. The grip you had on him being the only force on Milo’s weakening body. 

Seeing the droplets fall from your face into the blob, it was then you realized you were actually crying. 

Crying for Milo who was no longer breathing.

Closing your eyes, you tried to burn the memories of a living Milo. 

You should have never tried so hard to make them into friends.

You should have never taken Suu’s arrival so lightly.

You should have never gone on this date.

“(Y/n), you’re crying?”

That whiney despicably sweet voice made you snap your eyes open. There was Milo shirtless and without the blueness of Suu’s body. You could feel his tail slowly dragging along the grass closer to you. Even barely awake he could never leave you alone.

Seeing the monster happily breathing, you look up at the blob who was just a step away. Fully transformed into something similar to Milo holding up the shirt the Naga was wearing. Wondering why he didn’t just wear it you watched him, keeping eye contact with the slime. Suu walked forward Milo still getting in front of you as a shield. Still the slime came forward presenting the shirt to you, folded and with a small dampness that remained from Suu’s person. 

“Thank you.”

The slime smiled and repeated your words just like they did with Papi, it made you smile. Seems like Suu didn’t change all that much.

Milo sneered, “This slime almost killed me! Don’t gift him with your thanks Darling!”

You glared at him, dropping the shirt to smack the naga upside the back of his head.

“Only one of you ruined my shirt and touched me inappropriately today; they are the only one who deserves my thanks.”

Milo slumped into his coils, pretending to cry because you ‘yelled’ at him.

“And along with my thanks I’d like to offer you something,” you smiled as you finished putting on the Naga’s shirt, “how would you like to live with us, Suu?”

[ziggarts]

Star Trek AU

Lt. Toris Vika works in DS9's engineering crew. Why on DS9? Because his level of engineering expertise lends itself to Cardassian structures and machines, leading him to be selected by O'Brien himself. Also, it's my favorite (shoosh).

He's a Bajoran, who, because of the Cardassian Occupation, did not receive medical assistance for his condition (caused by exposure to Cardassian biological weapons in utero) until adulthood. He was hidden away to keep him from being executed for being an "undesirable" laborer.

While hidden, he was smuggled books and discarded materials by his parents, and found himself proficient in and passionate about Cardassian mechanical engineering. He fashioned not weapons, but life-preserving inventions, like shields, protective masks, and air filtration systems for the underground resistance tunnels as a eenager. He even accompanied Kira Nerys over comms on a mission to shut down a Cardassian power plant and liberate a group of captured Bajoran Resistance fighters.

When the Bajoran Militia was increasing its numbers, he was offered a position as an engineering officer, but initially turned the offer down for fear of being forced into making weapons. It took the personal request of Kira Nerys for him to join, and under the strict condition that he would never be made to use or design weaponry. Later, a Kira's further suggestion, Chief O'Brien personally requested Toris for the team.

With aid from the Bajoran Republic, he's undergone spinal replacement, organ replacement, and genetic therapy for his condition, so he's in a much healthier spot now, though he requires regular treatments to keep his symptoms managed, is prone to respiratory flares, and can't go into poor air conditions. He still requires the use of mobility aids, which makes getting around DS9 particularly difficult, but he doesn't let it slow him down.

He's close friends with Kira Nerys, having known her through her work with the resistance. He's also becoming closer to his doctor, Julian Bashir. The two have bonded through their experiences with disability, and the way it affects their relationship with their respective parents. He and Garak have a unique relationship, as well, with him having been more receptive and kind to the Cardassian than was initially expected.

His main job aboard DS9 is optimization and invention for the station, creating new and efficient ways of maintenance with less chance for worker error. He also works on repairs, retrofitting, and in his spare time, development of new technology for Bajoran quality of life planetside. Many of his designs are regarded as safety gold, though he sometimes dips into grey ethics in the pursuit of efficiency, sacrificing sentient input for mechanical certainty.

One of his inventions, a rudimentary android meant for surveying and repairing damage in decompressed areas of the space station, has shown signs of sentience after coming into contact with one of the Tears of the Prophets. Terrified for his creation, as well as the implications this could have amongst the government and spiritual branches of his homeworld, Vika has chosen to hide his invention, which has named themself 'Kosst' (meaning, "to be" in Bajoran).

[baitpaintsbadly]

"The Thallax were specialised, cybernetically-augmented shock troops manufactured and principally used by the Ordo Reductor of the ancient Mechanicum. The particular augmentations undergone by one of the Thallax are both severe and extreme, retaining only the brain (and in many cases the skull and spinal column), the life-sustaining viscera and nervous system as the basis of the articulated and armoured robotic frame which encompasses it. Other principal features of the design included a high-energy compact reactor system (whose emanations could not be endured by a less augmented organic system), allowing for extremely potent portable weaponry to be utilised, embedded Incunabulan Jet-Pack systems and arcane implanted sensory apparatus operating outside the usual realm of organic perception.

The sinister blank-faced helms of the Thalaxii conceal an array of inhuman sensory apparati through which they experience the battlefield as a raging storm of electromagnetic turmoil, blood-heat and seismic percussion. However, for the organic brain to handle this hurricane of data, it must be surgically mutilated, removing the mere Human senses such as sight and hearing. The unfortunate side-effects of these systems on the living components, however, were continuous agony and psychotic breakdown; effects ameliorated by the surgical excision of some of the brain's emotional centres. For some within the Mechanicum this transformation of the Human mind skirted the edge of abomination such as that posed by sentient "Abominable Intelligence"

The resulting machine-creature is capable of far greater tactical flexibility and independent action than a mere combat servitor, although terminal deterioration of the subject's psyche was certain over extended periods of time."

The 6 Thallax from the HH Mechanicum box, which I will be using as Kataphron Breachers in 40k. These lads are my favourite unit from the Mechanicum range, both in looks and lore and I forever hope and wish they get legend-ed in to 40k (never happening I know, but a trooper can dream). I shoved them onto some 60mm bases to avoid any "modeling for advantage" accusations and I'm pleasantly surprised by how ok they look on the larger base size, I was worried they'd look a bit weedy but I think they fill the space well (though I am very biased). They have some really cool extra gun options, with the Phased Plasma Fusil's, Photon Thrusters and Multi-Melta's, but not enough to fill a whole squad with. I dont want to muddy the proxy waters any further than I am already, so they're all getting the same, still very cool, Lightning Guns that I can pretend are Heavy Arc Rifles. So I'll keep the fancy ones for future kitbashing. Pic with Skit for Scale under the cut.

Also, hello to my Dark Heresy players, sorry that this is how you find out what that one character actually is, try not to worry too much about it :) .

[burning-spyce]

Some deets on Aji Pepper's background + factoids !

cw; This writing depicts implications of child abduction and abuse.

— He came from a dying population of titans, sought after by poachers who looked to drain them of their resources, magical abilities, or even sell them for coin to those in high power.

• The poacher's methods sealed tight away from the ears of many. They would use chains, shackles, spears, and flintlocks, though not of usual caliber. — These supplies and weapons were made of a mineral called Salt Water's Oracle. A stone that could shrivel up a being's energy, leaving their arcane shell and physical strength damaged. Either temporarily or permanently depending on its mineral percentage or usage.

— Aji Pepper was separated by their mother and caught by an infamous poacher named Spiced Chai Cookie. Who specialized in trading

"dangerous" beasts. (Dangerous in quotes because most were sentient cookies just like them but with more beast-like traits. )

• Spiced Chai had manipulated the young cookie into staying beside him; bringing him in to his client and arriving to a misunderstanding.

- Aji Pepper Cookie was initially going to be traded over to a tyrant to take role as a war chariot. However, the king had asked for an adult, being the impatient cookie that he was.

• Within discussion, Spiced Chai and the head guard simply had a miscommunication. Leading them to give Aji off to the mage, Cainito Juice Cookie, who had instantly took interest after seeing that they had no need for the baby titan after all.

So, they allowed Cainito to take Aji. Who figured he could experiment on him in attempt to master ways to drain his abilities so that the king's plans to conquer and start a war with another kingdom wouldn't stall any longer.

And in turn, realized he could make the coliseum's events a lot more exciting, So he tested Aji as they grew big enough to be thrown into the ring...

// Cainito would come to discover the poacher's secret. Forcefully depleting his source of the Salt Water's Oracle and gathering more than enough.- The power drawn from Aji Pepper Cookie was infused into the royal guard's weaponry. And with insatiable excitement, the titan wouldn't be the only beast to submit to the coliseum in due time.

- Cainito Juice Cookie had raised Aji with a protective, supportive facade. He showered him with love and care whilst teaching him the thrill of the coliseum, and covering up the shackles and such as training to become a chariot to the king in war. Whilst in return, Aji was very enthusiastic about his adoptive father's studies and supported him through and through.

• And at one point the two had a conversation that struck at Aji's heartstrings and encouraged him to keep going with the so-called career his father promised him.

During their conversation his father said he'd be alongside him "always and forever" to which Aji replied with "my forever?", feeling contented with the Cainito's words

Aji refers to the people he clings to his "forever".

[shorlinesorrows]

ok, there's two of them. and maybe some lighter projects i've been vaguely thinking about.

we've got the one where Rei never took the CAD test because the Archons broke past the line of defense when he was 11 and CAD tests became even more exclusive to "promising candidates" and the SCTs fell into disuse. Shido finds him anyway. Featuring: a heavily more distrusting cast, slowburn found family, and various action sequences I will die writing (also a variety of archon lore that I'll have to tag as inaccurate the second we get more information about them)

the other is vaguely disney mulan-based but scifi and includes a variety of identity shenanigans and fun / not so fun trans feels because why not, as well as way too much worldbuilding because I felt like giving myself a treat. Also Shido and Kes are people because they're Important to me and CADs don't really exist in this one.

(who am I kidding they both have way too much worldbuilding *he says without a hint of remorse in faer tone*)

it'd probably be a month or two before I felt ready to actually post any polished stuff because I prefer to write at least half before pushing it onto the internet, but I might throw out some vague snippets as I work on them alongside some concept art? Thoughts?

if I finally actually write the warformed au that’s been brewing in the back of my mind for the past months would the 3 people who actually know what warformed is on this site be interested?

I’m going to write it for myself regardless eventually because I’m going to perish waiting for book three otherwise, but I’m not sure if I’ll actually put it up anywhere

[what-dnd-class-are-they]

Character name: Sam Vimes

Media: Discworld

Information: He spends a decent part of his stories putting his anger away for later and then unleashing it, overcame an unfathomably old cosmic being that was possessing him and now it sometimes grants him abilities like dark vision, his dedication to his oath of office has allowed him to overcome the pull of sentient weaponry, he was once so not there in a shadow that a fleeing criminal leaned against him to hide. He takes great delight in annoying the city "elite". Honestly I'm probably missing a bunch of stuff. Oh he once stopped a war by arresting the leaders of both sides.

[roomwithavoid]

okay i wanna do one of these silly poll things

if you haven’t played portal (or if you have idc i’m not your mom)